


better times collide with now (better times are coming still)

by aspocko



Category: Lymond Chronicles - Dorothy Dunnett
Genre: Fatherhood, Post-Canon, being a parent is hard enough, dont think too hard abt khaireddin unless u want to cry, im jealous of the dog, just a weird little moment, the khaireddin situation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22991704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspocko/pseuds/aspocko
Summary: Kuzum has a father. Francis has a son. Philippa has... to manage.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	better times collide with now (better times are coming still)

**Author's Note:**

> this was part of a larger fic that i never ended up finishing. these two, brief moments felt complete, though, and seems like it'd be worth a share. takes place in the immediate post-canon era of checkmate. i remember spending a lot of time thinking about the kind of life khaireddin would have after all that's gone down. i know how painful his existence would have been for francis, but i always imagined that ultimately, they would find some way to come together. it would be sad and difficult and so precarious, but i think it could have been ok. maybe one day. (title is from a widow's toast, by neko case)

The afternoon brings a soft, timid knocking at the door. Philippa finds Kuzum, one hand clutching the neck of a lute. His eyes dart past Philippa to the bed, where Lymond sleeps.

“Is… is he… dying?”

Philippa attributes the hesitation in his voice to the fact that he’s probably not sure quite what to call Lymond or how to address him. Francis would be inappropriate, and Mr. Crawford would have been worse. Had Kuzum the opportunity to speak with Francis himself, Philippa suspects he’d have called him “Sir.” Since Philippa’s return from France, she’d heard Kuzum refer to Lymond as “Father”, but for some reason, he can’t bring himself to say it now.

“No, sweetheart. He’s sleeping,” Philippa says as Kuzum approaches the bed.

“Is he hurt? He’s been sleeping for so long.”

“He was hurt, very badly. But he’s alright now. He just needs rest.”

Telling this to Kuzum now, Philippa can almost believe it herself. Just the day before, she had been preparing to send for Archie, terrified when Francis slept straight through the day, night, and then straight through the following day. Kate didn’t seem particularly concerned and Sybilla didn’t seem particularly surprised. Both had seen Lymond through trying times before, had seen him eschew exhaustion and push past the limits of human endurance by sheer force of will. Both had agreed that the strain on Lymond’s mind was significant, but both had also expressed confidence that Lymond would come around. Philippa had to agree, if only to avoid thinking of the alternative.

“Kevin said that he led armies,” Kuzum says now. “That he rode horses and fought with a sword and killed people in battle.”

“Your cousin is right. Did you know your father was even awarded the baton of the marshal of France? That’s a great honor.” The memory was painful, but Philippa found it easy to bear any number of painful things out of want to reassure Kuzum rather than dwell on her own past misfortunes.

But Kuzum isn’t looking at her, and doesn’t seem to have heard her either.

“He looks… he doesn’t… I thought he would be… Is he sick?”

“No. Kuzum, he’s alright.”

“He looks sick.” His voice is so quiet, and he has to swallow hard before he can continue. “He looks…”

Philippa can see that it was too much for the boy. She can see that no matter what she said, Kuzum would hear no comfort or reassurance while his father lay unconscious like this. She can see Kuzum’s eyes glittering with tears.

“Come with me.”

Philippa steers the boy out into the hall, closing the door behind her more for Kuzum’s sake than for Francis’s. She rests her hands on the boy’s shoulders and kneels down onto the floor to meet him at eye level.

“Your father is well.” Being still worried herself, she doesn’t quite have it in her to promise. She hopes Kuzum won’t notice. “His sister has just died, and he’s just come to the end of a long journey. He’ll sleep, and he’ll be well again. You’ll see.”

She does her best to keep warmth in her voice, but it doesn’t seem to be doing much for Kuzum. The boy’s eyes keep darting past her, back to her bedroom door, and he appears be only half-listening to her platitudes, as if he were straining to listen for any noise within.

“And what,” Philippa says, dropping a hand from Kuzum’s shoulder to touch the lute, “were you doing with this?”

Kuzum swallows again, and then it all comes out in a rush. “I thought I could play him a song I’ve been practicing, Kate tells me how much he loves music and thinks he would be pleased with how well I played, and I thought if he was sick I could play for him and he would feel better, but you said he mustn’t be disturbed because he needs to sleep, and I wouldn’t want to wake him…”

“Why don’t you play for me instead? In fact, let us play together.”

It’s enough. Kuzum manages to tears his eyes from the door, and Philippa takes his hand and leads him down the hall and into the music room.

The weather that day is mild, and so the music is free to drift out of one open window and in through another. Lymond isn’t entirely sure if he is awake or dreaming when the music reaches him, but he angles his head to better hear the two lutes, the one simple, steadfast melody accentuated by the delicate fingerings of the more advanced player. There is laughter as well, and eventually the music gives way to playful conversation, and Lymond’s consciousness gives way to sleep.

-

He wakes to a familiar sensation, the side of his face caked in wet, congealing blood. Keeping his eyes shut, he lies perfectly still and waits for the pain to make itself known.

Nothing comes. He has no memory of getting hurt, and the lack of clarity grants him the curiosity needed to open his eyes and examine things further. 

Something large and brown crowds his immediate view, and then something warm and wet drags up the side of his face. It takes his sluggish mind longer than he’d care to admit to register that it is a dog, curled up in bed with him, furiously licking his face.

He shifts and turns his head to draw in a breath that doesn’t reek of hound. The dog whimpers and shifts to follow him, and the licking resumes after a brief moment of respite.

Across the room, a floorboard creaks, and Lymond extends his awareness past the immediacy of the bathing of his face in warm saliva. His gaze follows muddy paw prints across the room in reverse before stopping at the small feet of a small boy, dressed in finery, staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers and as blue as…

This boy. This fair haired, blue eyed boy. He had been at Midculter when Lymond arrived at Flaw Valleys, and, save for a letter he received in Russia that he could barely bring himself to read, Lymond had heard nothing of Kuzum, of Khaireddin Crawford, his son and heir apparent, in five years. He is a child, and looks… like a child, robust and healthy, his cheeks flushed, his clothes and face splashed liberally with mud.

“Please, sir,” the boy says, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Please… don’t tell Kate.”

Despite the slight lisp, no doubt the product of lost teeth, his voice is clearly accented like Philippa’s. He doesn’t sound like a Scottish heir, which is well and good, all things considered. He doesn’t sound like his father - doesn’t sound like Francis Crawford, and doesn’t sound like Gabriel Reid Mallet. He doesn’t sound like the quiet boy with the shells either, despite the hesitation he’s showing now as he stands amidst muddy footprints. 

That is not something Lymond wants to think about. Were he more awake, he never would have let himself get this far. His thoughts are slow now, weighed down by exhaustion. This is not something he ever would have allowed to happen otherwise. He’d have sent the boy away, or said something cruel to make the boy think to leave on his own.

Every second crawls by at an agonizing half-speed, as Lymond lazily watches at the boy; as Kuzum, wide-eyed and fearful, struggles and fails to stammer out an excuse.

Lymond cannot make a decision, too weary to think, so instead he settles for inaction and shuts his eyes, feigning sleep.

It’s petty, he knows, but he doesn’t feel up for asserting any kind of authority just yet.

“S-sir?” the boy’s voice, and then the shuffling of hesitant footsteps.

Then, the bed shifting as the dog is presumably dragged up, a yelp, a bark, the skittering of nails on a wooden floor.

Then, the unmistakable voice of Kate. “Khaireddin Crawford!” and on and on, about the dog, about the mud, about the smell. The boy presumably runs outside, and Kate’s shouting fades away as she presumably runs after him.

Then nothing, until more creaking of the floorboards under soft footballs, the creak of the bed as someone sits down on the edge, the sweep of a hand brushing his hair back from his forehead, then the press of lips.

“I wouldn’t,” Lymond mutters, too late.

“Wouldn’t you?” She says, and he opens his eyes to look at her.

“I might have dreamt it, but I thought the boy was in here, and brought some old dog to rouse me. No,” he says, after a moment, “there’s the smell. Unmistakable. Sorry I didn’t warn you. You’ll want to have a wash now. Christ, I’ll be wanting one myself.”

Then, the press of Philippa’s lips against his, to shut him up.

“Hello,” she says. “I’ve missed you.”

“Good morning,” he says before parting his lips and deepening the kiss.


End file.
